There are distances in the mind
that have no perspective: rivers,
no course, though there is a
waterway, a mountain but no ridge, 
yet birds fly toward it, streets
with no beginning and no end. 
A curb lifts up, space falls beneath
it down, down, toward a void
like a leaf curled up in the heat
of a monstrous summer. But look,
who is that who stands there
stunned with abrasions of light? 
Pity storms like a stand of whirling 
knives and he lifts me up
into the shadow of his arms.